I met up with Mr Morley for a day on the Downs. The words below, pilfered from his corner confirmed what I saw as he nailed the single-track like he was on rails and climbed like an oddly shaped, but efficient mountain goat:
‘the first steep confirmed my legs were good, it all felt a bit detached to be honest, just floating up the climb, the sensation continued on the climb to the top of Leith Hill, amazing, down the other side and the climb back over the top the nasty techy singletrack one despatched in the middle ring, no hurt no pain just gliding?’
Things weren’t so lovely in camp Allison.
There was no indication at the start of the misery to come. None at all. We went straight to Leith from Holmbury rather than the usual circuitous route. My legs thought they done the harder yards and continued in their misbelief.
Half way up High Ashes I waved the flag, sat down, ate half a Torq bar. Crawled miserably up to the Tower. The other half went down in desperation. Things picked up a little and reached something beyond mere survival. Summer lightening et al were despatched, ditto the climb back to the top, albeit slowly. And that was it.
From then on I trailed in Raoul’s kind and ever-patient wake. Weighed down by anvils, with legs full of lead ‘n vinegar, drenched in sweat of Hunter S Thompson preportions. Leaden, empty, just wanting to be put out of my misery.
Raoul told me take ‘a moment’. Immediate and grateful collapse face down into the grass. Unable to move, or focus on anything except the suffering going on inside my shell. He’d ridden a climb with aplomb that I’ve no doubt struggled up but never walked not once, not even in the broken years. I hadn’t even tried. I couldn’t.
Not a rider, just a passenger and a sodden, lumpen and sorry one at that. And an insult, an insult to quiet dry trails, who’d murmoured soft nothing’s, beckoned and enticed, laid out their lovelies in anticipation, deserving some justice. They got nothing from me. I owe them and my bike an apology.
